Prepared To Do Anything
by MoonMoon91
Summary: There were certain moments in his life in which Mycroft Holmes could not ignore his son. Marlow Arthur Holmes was not an easy child, and Mycroft Holmes was never the ideal father.
1. Chapter 1

**Prepared To Do Anything**

 _ **So I'm attempting a new Sherlock story, opposed to the one on my old account. I've read a lot on here discussing Sherlock's child, but not many Mycroft. I thought I'd give it a go to see what Mycroft Holmes's parenting skills would amount to. I'm not sure where this will go, hopefully it won't be too pointless. These are set just after the Reichnebach Fall, as well as some taking place in the past.**_

The hand grasping the umbrella tightened in annoyance, as Mycroft Holmes walked past the orderly who had just informed him someone was awaiting him in the office and refused to leave. The umbrella patted along the floor in a muffled thump, like a third heel as he strode along the carpet.

His first instincts concluded to Dr. John Watson being in his office, having yet again found a mention of his dear brother's name in some obscure tabloid, revoking an acidic temper from the usually calm doctor. His hand clasped the smooth rounded handle and his face turned into a frown. His instincts changed. If Dr. Watson was awaiting him, surely he would hear the usual agitated pacing footsteps or muffled sighs of despair. But there was nearly silence.

The handle turned and Mycroft entered casually, striding around his desk as to gain a view of his guest. He was not easily shocked, but the unannounced arrival of this individual certainly took him by surprise. He sighed through his nose and picked up a decanter from the silver polished tray, and removed the ornate glass stopper.

"Would you care for something?" He asked as he poured himself a drink. Hospitality seemed key in this role.

"Hardly my sort of drink." The boy sat in the leather seat spoke. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his son, having clearly not meaning alcohol due to his age, and replaced the stopper and sat at the desk.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this?" He asked, his breath clouding the glass of amber liquid as he lifted it to his lips. "It's unlike you to drop in unexpected, or at all, Marlow."

The person before him, no more than an overstretched boy, scrunched up his nose in distaste of the name, but did not react verbally. Instead he unfolded a heavily creased newspaper from his lap and allowed his father to read the headlines.

 _SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS._

His son refolded the newspaper and threw it at the desk. The alcohol within the decanter stirred. "Were you planning on telling me about this?"

"I assumed you'd find out for yourself, but I never expected for you to come seek me out. I believed it would take more than a family bereavement for you to come back."

"You didn't think I'd try and speak to you when I read my uncle was an apparent fake and killed himself? Wow you really are cold."

"Really, Marlow, don't get petty-"

"Call me Marlow again and we'll see who's petty." The boy grumbled. Despite being of age seventeen, the boy still refused to mature in some departments. Mycroft sighed through his nose and stretched his face into a grin that he son had concluded long ago to be patronising.

"Yes, I've heard you prefer your middle name these days. Even that is shortened, is it not?"

"Well Arthur doesn't suit me anymore than Marlow, so Art is the best ticket I've got." Art said, running and hand through his hair. It claimed the same dark copper colouring as his fathers, but remained uncut and unruly in curls. His face was pale and his clothes a stark contrast to his father's cream suit: consisting of a pair of frayed and ripped jeans, trainers, blue shirt and grey coat. The boy had deliberately decided against wearing his school uniform. It would make them look too alike.

Mycroft took another sip.

"Well?" Art snapped, beginning to wish he had accepted the drink. Or at least prepared before he walked into the lions den.

"Well what?" Mycroft claimed ignorance. Art rolled his eyes which gained a compulsive tut.

" _Why?_ What has gone on that led to, well, that?" He pointed at the folded paper, where a deerstalker was visible.

"It's complicated. Something I'm sure you don't have time to hear. You are getting on the first train back to school. We will post-pone this conversation, shall we?" Mycroft said, resting his hands on the arms of his seat. The hint of possible security observation didn't faze Art in the slightest.

"I've got all day, I told my professors of Sherlock's death - they gave me authorised absence. But I should have known I'd get nowhere. Isn't that always the case?" Art grumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets, slouching in his seat.

"Sit up properly, you'll ruin your posture. And if you only came to speak to me, for the first time in nearly a year, I might add, to re-establish old grudges, I don't have time for this."

"You never have time for anything." Art said. "And if you don't have time to talk to me why my uncle, your brother _I might add_ , committed suicide, then you're more of an ice-cold bastard than I ever thought possible."

Mycroft remained perfectly stationary as his son let out an agitated sigh and got to his feet. But as he reached the door, a hand forced it back into the frame. Art met his father's eyes, now of them standing at the same height. He was no longer intimidating as he was when still in early childhood. Art had long since established his own life and would not let Mycroft Holmes be the puppeteer of his life anymore.

"You will not speak to me like that again Marlow. You know how I feel of you using that language." Mycroft remained calm in his voice, as not to allow the youth to become more agitated than he already was. Again the eyes rolled and Art wandered around the seat of which he had been sitting.

"You still try and control my life – what I say, what I know, what I don't know. Why did Sherlock..." he couldn't phrase the words of his uncle's actions. He had looked up to Sherlock, even if Sherlock had never overly been involved in his life. Being locked in boarding school has its limitations.

"It is complicated. As I already said."

"I've got all day." Art allowed his flaring temper to cool and he returned to his seat. Mycroft rubbed his eyes for a moment to savour the darkness behind closed lids. But eventually he too returned to his seat and explained in as little detail as possible. As he spoke, he removed a paper from the desk draw. It added to the collection piling up on the mahogany surface. It showed the after affects of the verdict of James Moriarty.

"Moriarty certainly was cunning. But insane, to say the least." Mycroft trailed off as his son picked up the paper and examined the ink.

Art leaned back in his seat, slightly deflated. "The whole world thinks he's a fake..." he whispered.

"You assume I am allowing this," Mycroft pointed at the paper. "to remain? I have people going back as far as they possibly can. James Moriarty will soon come back to light, despite being deceased, and Sherlock's name will be untarnished."

Art slowly nodded his head, at least consciously aware Mycroft could do some good once in his life.

"When's the funeral?" He asked, not meeting Mycroft's eye.

"The service and the burial have been done. You were not required." Art slowly raised his head. Mycroft knew what was coming.

"You-"

"I told you I will not tolerate the language." Mycroft cut in, fully aware to the extend of his son's vocabulary. "The service was small and fairly private. There is no use whining about it now."

"I'll do more than bloody whine!" Art snapped and jumped to his feet. "You really are empty inside aren't you?"

"If your referring to my supposed lack of empathy, dear son. I can assure you that is not entirely true." Art resisted the urge to scoff. "What I have done, has always been for your well being."

" _My well being?_ " Art stammered. He was full aware of Mycroft Holmes's dry humour, but the look on the older man's face simply remained still and serious. "Locking me up in boarding school from five years old is for my well being? Never being around, preferring work to home is for my well being? All the missed birthdays, Christmases, you know, _normal family interaction._ That is for my well being?"

Art felt years of emotion swelling dangerously close to the surface. The tide was coming in and drowning seemed invertible. Mycroft pulled himself to his feet and stared across the desk at his son.

"I worked to keep this country thriving and functional," Said Mycroft, himself teetering on the edge as he son glared back with equal determination in his eyes.

"That is a life-time commitment. I have given you the best possible education the country, which you should be currently attending. Because of which you will most likely attended a prestigious university Yet despite all I have given you, you refuse to accept it, remain ungrateful and retain a childish and petty attitude." Mycroft finished, panting slightly internally.

"I never wanted that!" Art cried out.

"Then what did you want? You returned to school and never spoke to me again, you have to tell me what you want from me, Marlow!"

"I want a father!" Art banged his fist on the desk. The decanter wobbled. "You were never there! You're not there now! I spend summers either at school, or with friends, wishing I was actually apart of their family rather than a guest. You never cared! And you still don't!"

"What is it I've heard you say?" Art said. The tide was here and the flood were following a storm. "Caring is not an advantage? No, it's not. _It's human nature._ It's what we're supposed to do. Yet you seem to lack it most of all."

Art removed his clenched fists from the desk and left. The door banged shut, Mycroft not rising to stop it. He remained in his seat and heard his son yell something most undignified. Had this been a normal situation, he would have been appalled at the use of words in a place such as the Diogenes Club. But now he could not fathom anything outside of the room.

What was it Jim Moriarty supposedly nicknamed him?

 _The Ice-Man_

When Irene Adler had first titled him that, Marlow had instantly come to his mind. It had been the boys code word with nanny's and butlers and friends to refer to his father.

" _Is the Ice-Man coming home tonight?"_ He had once heard a child speak through a closed door.

He had not been empty _that_ day. He had called every member of his security team that night to ensure his son had not come into any contact with Jim Moriarty. But the boy had no contact with the consulting criminal.

Mycroft leaded forwards and poured himself another drink from the decanter.

 _ **So I'm thinking of making this a collection of one-shots that sort of tie in together. I'm looking at writing maybe five pieces, but only if people actually seem to like the idea of this. Reviews are really, really appreciated. So please let me know if you enjoyed it and what you thought of it. And hopefully I can look at writing another piece with Marlow Arthur Holmes.**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Prepared to Do Anything**

"Holmes, are you even listening to me?" Art lifted his head from the desk and saw Professor Greene pause mid-way through the chapter of financial issue during the Tudor era. The man peered over tiny spectacles at the teenager who slouched in his seat, eyes drooping, clearly still in the process of waking up.

"No sir. I got bored around the second line. Thought I'd occupy myself with something more useful, like sleep." The book was snapped shut. The leather spine creaking.

"I've had it with you boy," Professor Green growled as the bells within the corridors began to chime for lesson change. With a few sniggers at Professor Greene's expense, chairs were scraped back.

"Holmes!" Greene bellowed over chattering voices. "Stay behind, you can put the books away!"

"Unlucky," A voice hissed in Art's ear. He caught the sympathetic look of his roommate, and close friend David Fitzpatrick.

"Umm, I've read of Russia torture methods to be less painful." Art mumbled to his friend as other students dispersed. David joined the crowd as Art left his bag on the desk and walked up to the Professor. The man typically held students back to lecture them of life's miseries and administer punishments that could range from trimming the cricket field to a week of detention. Depending on his generosity.

"Sort number order, Holmes. And you're lucky." Art raised an eyebrow. "I can't make you do anything today, but if I get anymore cheek off you, I'll have you scrubbing the floors with your toothbrush." Greene swept out the room. Possibly to fill his coffee cup with a little more alcohol, as every passing day the smell of alcohol got stronger on his breath.

Art sighed and collected the heavy volumes from each desk, contemplating Professor Greene's lack of serious punishment, when he heard the classroom door re-open.

"What are you doing here?" Art asked, eyes narrowing as Mycroft Holmes strode around the desks, pinstripe suit immaculate, swinging his umbrella lightly.

"I'm here on a visit. Is a father not allowed to call upon his son?" Mycroft smiled as he sat himself in Professor Greene's seat, hands resting on his umbrella.

"Are you sure a war won't erupt without you behind a desk in London?" Art said, his face frowning as he placed the books back on the shelf. He could see Mycroft's face twitching, his OCD reacting to the books being as far from sort order as possible, several upside down.

"Don't be smart, Marlow." Mycroft said, still eyeing the books.

"Sherlock told me about your habit of saying that." Art grinned. The memory of his deceased Uncle somewhat hurt more as time went. Yet whenever he looked at Mycroft, he noticed his father didn't even blink out of turn. "I said I'd call Granddad and Nana tonight," Art said. "I want to talk to them about Uncle Sherlock-"

"You'll do no such thing." Mycroft snapped. He finally removed himself from the seat and flipped the books on the shelf the right way around. Mycroft hesitated for a moment as if to think. "They...do not need further upsetting. And besides, I'm not here to talk to you about Sherlock."

"Oh," Art said, shrugging as he shouldered his bag. "Okay. Bye then."

"And we're not finished, dear son." Mycroft said. Art sighed, hiding his face in his hands. The bells chimed again for new lessons to start. "I believe a lesson is due to arrive. Take me to your dormitory, we have things to discuss."

"Fine." Art said plainly, yanking open the door, where Professor Greene stumbled backwards. Almost comically. He straightened his spectacles and took a sip from his cup as he entered the classroom, head held high. Art led the way through the highly polished corridors that were littered with passing students. St. Theodore's boarding school sat in the heart of the countryside and was well known for high results and its notable alumni. Art hated every inch of the building. He had attended the school since he was five and knew the place better than his own home. And yet he hated it.

He led Mycroft through the halls towards the staircase that took them to the male dormitories. David Fitzpatrick came running down the steps besides them. Art caught him by the arm.

"Tell Dr. Taylor I won't be in Chemistry." He said.

"Forgot your homework again?" David chuckled, and upon seeing Mycroft, stopped and ran onwards towards the science block.

"Never thought you'd be the reason I couldn't go to class." Art grumbled, though slightly relieved the miss chemistry. The subject was interesting, but didn't hold his attention for too long. Also the assigned homework sheets lay screwed up in a ball beneath his bed. "Normally you'd ram that umbrella against my head to push my face into a book if you could." Art said, pulling out his desk chair to allow Mycroft to sit. The man smiled slightly, looking about the room Art shared with David. Art lay on his bed and absently flicked through pages of a book as Mycroft observed the surroundings.

"You clearly have yet to learn how to tidy up after yourself."

"So no conversation about Sherlock. Did you just come here to criticise my cleaning?" Art said, grinning slightly.

"No, I came about these." Mycroft reached into his suit pocked and removed a bundle of pink slips. Art's face fell. They were misconduct forms. He seemed to have acquired a considerable number.

"You're making a name for yourself, son." Mycroft said as he flicked through, narrowing his eyes at the handwriting. "And not a good one. You really called your English teacher a degenerate?"

"Well he is. He gives his niece the best marks in the class. And she's a waste of valuable oxygen at the best of times."

"Yes, I heard. I have that form here too." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Not unlike his son.

"Was this all I had to do?" Art said sitting up on the bed.

"I'm sorry?" Said Mycroft.

"Make trouble? If so, allow me to build a time machine, and tell my eight year old self – if you want daddy dearest to notice you, just cause havoc. Works best." Art kept eye contact as Mycroft frowned heavily.

"This will not do, Marlow." Mycroft dropped the forms on the desk surface. The only part in which wasn't covered in text books and half eaten biscuits. "If you make this sort of name for yourself here, of all places, then there truly is no hope for your future."

"You had hope in me to begin with?" Art said, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the paint streaks. "I thought I was just a nuisance to you. An obstacle you had to put up with."

Mycroft's frown deepened. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you always play with your ring when you see me." Art nodded to where, indeed, Mycroft was absently pushing the ring on his right hand around his finger. "Is that instead of a wedding ring? Symbolises you work for the government and even if you wanted to, it wouldn't look good to kill me?"

"Don't joke of such things." Mycroft said, rising from his seat. Art hoped briefly he was about to leave, but instead his father just paced the room and pulled open the curtains. As light poured in, and Art hid his head under a pillow, Mycroft watched the school's team practise cricket.

"I came because of those forms. And because I'm concerned."

"You have a funny way of showing it, don't you." Art mumbled from beneath the pillow. Mycroft sighed and pulled the pillow away, his son looking up at him.

"Don't doubt my concern for you. I care more than you think. I am not some monster you construct in your fantasies."

"How would you know?" Art murmured, looking away. He head his father sigh and step around the room.

"I've seen this pattern before and I don't want to see you go the same way."

"Same way as who?" Art asked, sitting up on the bed. Mycroft just stretched his face into the same grin that made Art want to roll his eyes. He briefly imagined the eyes rolling out the back of his head and rolling on the floor.

"Never mind." Mycroft said, consulting his watch. "I have a car waiting for me."

"What is that ring for then?" Art asked, stepping forwards. Mycroft peered down at him and began straightening his school tie and top button.

"It serves as a reminder. That although your mother did something wrong, she did something right." Art frowned. Not once in his entire life had he ever heard Mycroft refer to his mother in a manner where he didn't look disgusted.

"What did she do? You hate to even mention her?"

"She gave me you." He pulled the tie up, checked his watch once more and bid his son farewell, leaving the room as he did so. Art stood there, dumbstruck until he heard the bells chime again in the distance.

 **What did you think? Feel free to let me know!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Prepared To Do Anything**

His mind used to be busy. He never had the logical mind to develop the skill of deduction, however. The trait of his uncle and father had passed him by. But his mind was always busy. Things screamed at him within his skull, pointing out a hundred things at once. He was just unable to understand what they were telling him. But now, as he stood outside the door, his mind was vacant. The emptiness swelled and his stomach ached at the pain of it.

He could distantly here the sounds of New York outside. Those people marched on brave as anything, and here, he could not knock upon a simple door. The goldfish had out done him.

He had come all this way. Defied and pushed Mycroft to the limits. Once his father found out where he was, he would most likely never see the light of day ever again. So he should make it count. He had searched for years, pleaded for as little as a name. And now he was here, close to calling off and running with the preverbal tail between his legs. He took a breath and knocked. He moved out his arm before he could snatch it back. But the fist made contact with the door and the knock echoed through the apartment beyond. He heard the sounds of shuffling and soon the door was open. The confused face of a woman appeared and he felt even more lost for words.

"Who are you? The doorman didn't send anyone up." She said, her eyes narrowing. Could she see Mycroft Holmes in his face and guess. She hadn't seen him since he was barely a month old. And here he was. He had done all he could to find his mother. He scraped and scrambled with what he collected. But he found her. Married. To the banker she had fled from Mycroft with. Two kids. But she never acknowledged her first. He envied two children he had never met, more than he could envy a lot of things.

"I'm…" he began. Her eyes narrowed as a British accent came. Most likely uncommon in her more recent day-to-day activities. But he could see she was working it out.

"Who is it?" A man's voice called, unseen, from the apartment.

"Don't worry, I've sorted it." The woman said and stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind her. She glanced up and down him. He had dressed as none descript as he could. Make it as hard as he could for Mycroft to spot him on the security cameras at an airport. He would most definitely know by now. His assistant would have been told someone had used one of his emergency accounts to purchase a flight here. He wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft had a team landing in New York right now to drag him back.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, her face a frown. He was no good with human interaction at the best of time, but he could tell this was not a good starting point.

"I…don't know…" He managed to croak out. She hid her face in her hands before sighing deeply.

"You shouldn't have come. He won't be happy." Even after all these years she knew how Mycroft would react to him running to meet the woman who abandoned her husband and child.

"Is he ever?" He said a matter of factly, gaining the smallest smile from her. "I didn't know how to write you a letter first…so I just came over."

"You just decided to hop from London to New York?" She said, folding her arms.

"Mommy?" A voice said form behind the door.

"In a minute!" She called. She noticed how his eyes glanced to the door and back.

"Is there a difference? Between me and…them." She grit her teeth noticeably.

"Let's not do this, please…just go." Art frowned at her. "Look, alright. I left you both. But, well, your father takes care of you doesn't he?"

Art stared at her. "That's not what I asked."

"Well, I…" She struggled for words. "I wasn't happy with him. And he seemed he'd be okay with you, so I decided to put myself first. But it didn't include you, I'm afraid."

'You thought he would just be okay with me, so you decided to jump on a plane with the first guy you could?" He felt a temper rising. It normally remained dormant in his head, but now he was drowning in again. It appeared more and more.

"I'm sorry!" She yelled, her own temper rising. But I couldn't stay there. I didn't want that life with you both. I couldn't face him, and I couldn't face you."

"What is going on out here?" The man from within the apartment opened the doors and before any words could be exchanged, Art ran from the corridor. He didn't hear anyone shout after him as he made his way down the corridor and jumped in the elevator. A few people were within so he gripped the support bar around the lift tightly, his knuckles turning white to stop himself screaming. His face must have been twisted, or maybe tears had actually left his eyes as the people in the lift stayed to one side until the doors pinged open. He charged past residents and out onto the street, people cursing as he knocked into them.

He glanced up at the high apartment building. There was temptation to burn it down. But burning the curtains in his shared dormitory with David was different to burning a building. But the temptation tasted so great. He turned and strode through the streets. He really didn't know what to do. He hadn't overly prepared for this outcome.

He had found his mothers name and pulled out the bankcard to one of Mycroft's emergency accounts. He could go back to the airport and wait for the next flight out, but he felt rooted to the spot. Beneath the grating of the sidewalk, subways rattled along tracks.

Aimlessly he wandered. The streets were so loud they distracted him from the emptiness in his head. More and more told him to watch his step as he knocked into them without a second thought. He walked and soon managed to find a taxi. Between the hum of the taxi radio and traffic jams, he stared out the window, fully aware he looked as if he was on some form of narcotic. The taxi driver kept glancing back at him every chance he got until he happily took the fare and sped away, leaving Art at the airport entrance.

His head echoed as he found a wall and slid down on to the ground, He hugged the backpack to his chest. Thankfully, nobody paid him heed, already immersed in the nature of New York. They all blanked him from sight. He pulled out the mobile phone from the bag and finally switched it back on. To no surprise there were several missed calls. Slowly, his thumb hovered over the smart screen to hit re-dial. Holding his breath, he held it to his ear. It only took two rings before Mycroft answered.

" _What do you think you're doing?! You've been to see her, haven't you."_ It wasn't a question. Mycroft never asked questions to things he already knew. Art stayed silent. He just listened to Mycroft's heavy breathing and for the man to constantly question him.

" _Marlow, listen to me. There is a plane already sanctioned. It's on its way…I'm on my way. John F. Kennedy airport. Are you even listening?"_ All Mycroft would hear was the sounds of taxi horns and bustling tourists. The man took this as a yes indicator and told him to go to the reception desk.

" _Marlow, listen. We will sort this out."_ Art just brought his knees closer to his chest until Mycroft coaxed him to go to the information desk. Before Art could as much stutter a word, Mycroft's phone lost service and they were cut off. Shouldering his bag, he slouched over to the desk, waiting in line with his passport.

"Yes?" The woman said, her accent gleaming. He dropped his passport on the desk and she opened it, looking puzzled, but nodded straight after finding his name. She picked up a landline and spoke into the receiver in a hurried whisper.

"If you'd like to follow me, sir." The woman led him away from the desk and he trailed behind her, watching her heels clink on the floor as voices filtered in and out of his head. She led him into a private waiting room where next to the door, an earpiece in, stood a man of muscle. The man didn't move. If he watched him more carefully he might have been able to determine whether the man blinked or not. Trust Mycroft to make sure he was kept in place.

He lay, spread out across the sofa provided in the room as he waited for…whatever came next. He wasn't sure. With no windows, nor motivation to look at his watch, hours could have flown by before he heard the door creep open. The shadow the man cast on the ground moved as he left the room. Mycroft's umbrella tapped on the ground.

"Do you know just how stupid you've been?" Mycroft said in a quiet voice, yanking off his gloves. Danger lurking in every letter.

"Very." Art sighed. Any motivation to evoke spite was diminished. His broken walls took Mycroft himself aback. He stepped closer into his line of vision. Art would have lain across the sofa forever if he wasn't ordered to stand up.

They stood eye to eye, but Art couldn't hold focus for long, letting his eyes just trail off as Mycroft examined him.

"How do you turn everything off?" Art asked in a whisper.

"I'm sorry?"

"Emotions and stuff." He mumbled. "Caring isn't an advantage. How do you do it? I want it all to switch off." Mycroft narrowed his eyes as he managed to look his son in the eye.

Art looked at the man for only twenty seconds before what was left of any walls crumbled down completely. He echoed with sobs and rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder. He felt the man tense up considerably but he couldn't move away as tears fell. Awkwardly, he felt Mycroft place an arm around him.

"I'm sorry." The man said. "I lead you to this. If I'd told you more of what she was to start with, you wouldn't be here." Art just gripped Mycroft's coat tightly. Keeping one arm positioned around his son, and another clutching his umbrella, Mycroft lead them both out of the room through the private corridors of the airport.

"Mr. Holmes. Ready to depart?" Someone said, whom Art couldn't see. He felt the tendons of Mycroft's neck nod and they were lead outside across the runway. The wind stung his tender eyes and Art wiped them away furiously. But Mycroft would not remove the arm he had around his son. They ascended the small set of steps into the small private plane. A hostess took his backpack and stored it in an overhead compartment as he sat down in the cream leather seat, eyes focusing beyond the window.

"What you have, Marlow." Mycroft said, sitting in the opposite seat. "Is the ability to use emotions correctly. Do not wish them away because someone abused them."

"I shouldn't have come here." He said to himself, more than Mycroft. But the man had impeccable hearing.

"No, you shouldn't have."

The plane took off shortly and once high in the atmosphere with the sky turning dark, Art dropped off. Mycroft watched him sleep, contemplating the days. He made a point to have Anthea monitor all his accounts more carefully after this event. Thinking of his assistant, he pulled out his phone and called her.

As the phone dialled, he watched his son sleep. He didn't need to know what he had planned for his mother after what she had done to him. Leaving him all those years ago had left a bitter taste in his mouth. But for her to do this to his son, she would not get away with.

 **A/N: Just wanted to say a quick thank you for all the follows/favourites on this story as well as the comments. Also, to the guest reviewer: One of your guesses was right! I had KickthePJ in mind when I was thinking up Art. Nice one.**

 **Hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and if you did please let me know!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Prepared To Do Anything**

It was unplanned, and certainly unheard of. The car drove through London during midday, Art sat bored in the back. The window was down, despite the cold of the start of November. Decorations paraded on either side of the street, preparing for the upcoming season just a month away. He pulled out his phone and checked for messages. Mycroft had suggested he return for a few days, having already cleared it with his school. He was in his final year of St. Theodore's and had only been back a month before he got the call from Mycroft, actually it was his assistant Anthea who had called him. Telling him his father had requested him home for a few days, but was unable to ask himself due to being abroad somewhere. He had failed to mention he was leaving the country.

They had barely spoken all through the summer when he was home. There had been a certain tension in the air after his trip to New York. Especially after hearing that the banker which his mother was married to had been arrested on embezzlement charges. It had been on the news one morning, due to the man's high respectability. Mycroft hadn't met his eye over the breakfast table once it came on the screen.

Art looked over and saw Anthea, who was sat next to him, texting on her phone. Most likely informing Mycroft they were nearly at..where ever. They clearly weren't going to Mycroft's home, and sure enough they were pulling up besides the last place he had expected to meet Mycroft.

Art had only been to 221b Baker Street once before shortly after Sherlock had moved in. He had never met the famous John Watson, even after Sherlock died.

"Your father is upstairs." Anthea spoke, not looking up from her phone. Maybe working in close proximity with Mycroft Holmes most days made you anti-social by association. He unbuckled his seatbelt and as soon as he was on the pavement, the car drove off and merged into the crowd, lost to sight.

Feeling a sudden chill, Art zipped up the front of his grey hoodie, walking past the front of Speedy's sandwich shop. He pulled on the knocker for 221b twice and waited.

Several moments later, a small woman opened the door, dressed in purple. The woman must have been Sherlock's landlady. Was she called Mrs. Hudson or something? He mentally shrugged when he realised the woman was waiting for him to speak.

"Um, I'm looking for my father, um Mycroft Holmes?" He said, not really sure what to say. Mrs. Hudson's face burst into a smile and ushered him in.

"Oh hello! Come in off that doorstep, dear." She said, closing the door to 221b behind him. "I never knew Mr. Holmes had a son, you do look like him." She said, obviously thinking it was a compliment. Art wasn't sure how he felt behind compared to Mycroft in appearance. It was unusual enough when people compared their personalities. "He's right upstairs dear, you must have heard the news, isn't it wonderful?" She clapped her hands together, still beaming as she wandered back into the apartment which must have been 221a.

Art looked up the stairs leading to 221b when he heard a strange buzzing sound. Why was Mycroft having him brought here? Was he doing something to Sherlock's stuff? Whatever was going on, Mrs. Hudson seemed to think it was good. He stepped up the wooden stairs slowly, the boards creaking beneath his feet as he tried to pick apart the muffled words he could hear in the flat above.

He entered the door leading to the kitchen when he heard Mycroft say "Don't be smart." Art blinked, thinking Mycroft was speaking to him, until he stepped around the kitchen door and saw Mycroft in a seat adjacent to another.

" _Don't be smart, Sherlock, I'm the smart one."_

"I _am_ the smart one." Neither brother didn't seem to notice his arrival as Art's eyes widened and he was convinced he was seeing some sort of ghost.

Sherlock's eyes glanced up for a second, meeting Art's terrified ones. "If so Mycroft, how have I noticed your son's arrival and you didn't?" Mycroft turned in his seat and found Art clutching the door frame of the kitchen, staring at Sherlock, horrified. He opened his mouth, but no sounds were emitted, making him seem like a goldfish.

"Don't just stand there, Marlow." Mycroft said as Sherlock rose from his seat, smiling slightly

"But-you're-" Art managed to only slip out a few words as he stepped into the sitting room, watching Sherlock intently.

"The art of deception." Sherlock said, pushing away the game of Operation Sherlock had somehow gotten his brother to play. "I thought you'd be an expert due to homework excuses." Sherlock Holmes being alive took away the shock of him making a joke, and Art grabbed a hold of his Uncle and hugged him tightly. Sherlock chuckled slightly, patting his nephew on the back.

"You know I'd love to punch you in the face right now." Art said tonelessly, still trying to wrap this around his brain. Sherlock chuckled harder.

"I'm afraid you'll be disappointed, son." Mycroft spoke, narrowed eyes watching Sherlock hug his nephew. "John already performed that ceremonial right." And true enough Sherlock's lip had a slight dent as if it had recently been broken. But that still didn't stop him. One punch was delivered straight to Sherlock's cheek. Mycroft practically jumped from his seat and pulled Art backwards.

"Sorry, had to be done." Art said, breathing heavily as Sherlock tapped the side of his face, flinching slightly, but nodding in understanding.

"Never do anything like that again, Marlow." Mycroft hissed in Art's ear, but the teen just ignored him, wrenching his arms from his father's grip.

"To be honest, Art, I was expecting for you to aim for my nose." Sherlock said, but smiled as he sat back in his seat. "Though your punching has improved." Mycroft stood before the fireplace and glanced at his son with eyes that told the boy to sit down; he was walking on eggshells.

"Had a bit of practise, here and there." Art said simply. But regretting it as Sherlock looked pointedly at him, his face becoming oddly blank.

"Bullies?" His uncle deduced and Mycroft's head swivelled round quickly. Art didn't meet his eye.

"Nothing I can't handle. Besides, don't try and avoid it – how the hell did you survive jumping off a building? And I will punch you again if I have to." Sherlock chuckled again and Art found himself breaking into a smile himself. He hadn't thought about Sherlock in so long – it had pained to think his Uncle had actually died, after not seeing him in so long. Sherlock had been there in his earliest years – his and Mycroft's parents had practically raised him, and Sherlock had only been in his mid-teens when Art was born. He lost the close touch upon Mycroft altering his hours to bring him home, before shoving him in boarding school.

"Like I said, the art of deception."

"We can't get rid of you that easy can we?" Sherlock shook his head. "You really are...well, bizarre." As he spoke, there was a knock on the flat door, along with a little calling.

"Speaking of which," said Mycroft, but Art knew the man had yet to take his eyes off of him. Mrs. Hudson bustled into the room, carrying a tea tray.

"I can't believe it." She sighed happily. "I just can't believe it, him sitting in his chair again. Isn't it wonderful, Mr. Holmes?" She asked Mycroft. Art rolled his eyes at his father's response, climbing out of the seat and wandering about the room as Mrs. Hudson left to fetch a forgotten milk jug. Sherlock snatched a hat off the table as Art examined the papers littering it, all still covered in dust.

"Art, lets see if you have gotten any further." Sherlock said, chucking a faded, strange looking hat to him. "What can you tell, see if you can put my dear brother to shame." Art felt himself going red in the face as he examined the hat. The Holmes brothers watched him keenly. Mycroft stared at his son in interest to see if Art would pick up on what the hat displayed of it's owner. The boy had frustrations in the past and had once cried when young as he was unable to have the same 'super-power' (as the then seven year old boy had put it) as Uncle Sherlock.

Art turned the hat over in his hands and couldn't look past what was visible – one bobble badly chewed, and it was a damn ugly hat in his opinion.

"I can't," he said, chucking it back to Sherlock, who batted it to Mycroft.

"I'm sure you can, just think." Art stared at the hat in his father's hand, but nothing new came to his mind. A hundred different things were shouting at him inside his skull, the bone nearly shook off his shoulders, but he couldn't make sense of any of it. He truly was a goldfish.

"I can't," He said again at sat down on the sofa behind him, glancing up at the display of papers pinned to the wall. He looked back over to see Mycroft staring at him before examining the hat. The two brothers batted deductions back and forth like it was sport. It was to them. But to Art it was the hardest thing to do. He was a simpleton compared to the Holmes brothers, to his family. He wasn't exactly stupid, but when compared to Sherlock and Mycroft, he felt like something beneath their shoes.

As the two battled mentally, Mrs. Hudson returned with the milk jig and began pouring cups of tea. She offered one to Art and she happily made one for him. She even placed a small biscuit on the saucer.

"There you go dear."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He said and she smiled. He supposed she didn't get a lot of gratitude verbally, from the Holmes brothers and she happily stirred in one sugar for him. She bustled into the kitchen to dry Sherlock's pots. Deciding he couldn't bare to watch the two deduce facts anymore, he followed her and helped her put away the plates in a high cupboard.

"I must say dear, you're not what I would have expected for Mr. Holmes's son." She said with a smile, nodding to Mycroft who chucked the hat to Sherlock. "It's nice to get a little help here and there." She quizzed him on what he did and he felt respect for the landlady who probably stopped his Uncle from putting bullet holes in everything.

"...but you missed his isolation." Sherlock said, Art unable to stop himself watching his father become lost on one piece of deduction.

"I don't see it." Mycroft admitted. Sherlock enjoyed taunting his brother so until Mycroft looked ready to snap. "Tell me."

"Well anyone who wears a hat as stupid as this isn't in the habit of hanging around other people, is he?"

"Maybe not," Mycroft paced the floor. "Perhaps he doesn't mind being different." Even Mrs. Hudson came out of the kitchen to watch.

"Exactly," Said Sherlock. Mycroft frowned. "He's different why should he mind?" He placed the worn out hat on his head. "Why would anyone mind?" Art blinked furiously and held back a laugh at the look on Mycroft's face, who also blinked an unexpected amount of times.

"I'm not _lonely_ , Sherlock."

"How would you know?" The detective moved away from his bewildered brother.

"Yes, well...back to work. Good morning. Come, Marlow." Art left the kitchen and caught the wink his uncle sent him. He grinned and followed Mycroft down the staircase to where the car was parked, as if it had never merged into the traffic after dropping him off.

Climbing into the back of the car, Art glanced back up to the windows of 221b. His brain was still warped at the concept of Sherlock being alive.

" _Please, Uncle Sherl?" Art had asked, holding a book up in front of his uncle. The man rubbed his eyes as his nephew pleaded._

" _Can't someone else read you the story, or can't you read it yourself?"_

" _I'm five." Art said, his eyes wide. "I can't read, Uncle Sherl."_

" _That shouldn't stop you." Sherlock said with narrowed eyes, but begrudgingly sat down on the front step of the house and opened the book his nephew found. The boy would pick up whatever he found – unable to read the title, he would pick the strangest things: from his mother's cooking books to the television repair manual._

" _Why do you want me to read to you so badly," Sherlock said with a frown as he flicked through the book. Art had picked up one of his old story books from years ago. The boy must have gotten into the attic again. It was the same book of short stories Mycroft had read to him when a child – one being the infamous East Wind. Sherlock sucked on his teeth and flicked to the first page as Art shuffled up to sit next to him and listen. Sherlock spoke each word, pointing to each one so his nephew could follow them in hopes the boy would take after his family and catch on quickly. Sherlock could read by four, Mycroft by three and a half. Yet Art couldn't even hold a pen properly._

 _Sherlock had once held his nephew when he was only a year old and tried to get him to walk across the room. His mother had whacked him across the head with her newspaper when she caught him. She assured him he was perfectly normal, just not as a quick a learner. Sherlock supposed his nephew had gained all the simplistic genes from his mother's side, not getting much from Mycroft or any of the Holmes's._

" _Why don't you tell me the real reason you wanted me to read to you?" Sherlock had said. Art hung his head and shuffled on the step. "You want to waste time."_

" _Huh?"_

" _You want me to read you a long story, you haven't put your shoes on, and I heard you unpacking your stuff. You don't want to go with Mycroft when he comes for you. So you're doing everything to drag it out."_

" _I don't want to go with him."_

" _He's you father, is he not?" Sherlock said, though he felt a stab of sympathy for his nephew. Having Mycroft as an older brother was one thing, but for Art it would be different having him as a father._

" _I want to stay here with you, and Nana, and Granddad. I don't want to go. I want to stay here." Art burst into tears and Sherlock was at a loss of what to do. He shouted into the house for his mother who came running at once, thinking he was in serious pain. She scooped her grandson up, and in attempts to cheer him up, pointed to the end of the road._

" _Look! Your daddy's here!" But Art just cried harder upon seeing Mycroft making his way up the pathway. "I want to stay with Uncle Sherl! I don't want to go with him!" He bawled, pointing at Mycroft who stood at the base of the garden path._

"Marlow!" Art snapped from his trance to see Mycroft in the seat next to him in the car.

"You knew he was alive, didn't you?" Art asked, panting slightly, glaring at Mycroft.

"I did. He had to have a confidant, and help in his task."

"Why didn't you tell me he was alive?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"It had to look convincing, I knew your emotions would get the better if you knew he was alive. There would have been people watching, it had to look convincing from all angles."

"Letting me think he was dead...it's one of the worst things you've done to me." Mycroft stared at him.

"One of them? I must have done a lot. And you're not mad at him, but you are at me?"

"I punched him in the face, I think that shows how pissed off I am." Mycroft's umbrella came level to his face, his father staring intently.

"Language, dear son. And about the punch...practise? Is it bullies?"

"It's none of your business." Art said, slouching in his seat, not looking anywhere but out of the car window.

 **Thanks for reading this far! Hope you've been enjoying it. If you have, please let me know in a review! They really make my day! Thanks and see you next chapter.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Prepared to Do Anything**

 **Hey guys! Sorry for such a loooooong delay on this chapter. These are one-shots and sometimes I can go forever without any idea. But this time of year gave me an idea to use, so I hope you all enjoy. Thanks for all the follows/favorites and the reviews whilst I've been thinking this chapter up. It's amazing to see you guys still reading this :)**

How so many could fit into one room was a mystery to Art. And every other room in the house was just as full, as he learnt from trying to reach the kitchens for drinks. After battling through the crowds, he found David leaning up against a wall, his eyes glassy as he watched a girl sitting on the sofa by the window, feeding treats to her boyfriend.

'Beep beep. Stalker alert.' Art said with a grin as he handed over the bottle. 'If Michael catches you staring at his girlfriend again, he may just bury you in the yard.' He said with a laugh behind his bottle. David sighed, but continued to stare.

'But she's hot, man!'

Art raised his eyebrow. 'Yes, because Julie Anderson loves pirates,' he gestured wildly to David's choice for the Halloween party. 'Instead of the oh so great Michael Goal.'

'Better than your choice man, seriously, cut it with the vampires. People are gonna think you love Twilight or something.' Art had opted for a white shirt and black cape, completing the look with fake fangs, which stayed in his pocket whilst drinking. He had dressed as a vampire every Halloween since he was eight.

'Hey, what character on Twilight dressed like this? Don't diss Dracula.'

'Still can't believe we got invited to a party.' David grinned, taking a swig. 'It's the last party of school as well – freedom is in sight my friend.'

'I'd hardly call university freedom. Plus, we didn't get invited, you just decided it would be fun to blow off steam where we're not wanted.' And true enough, they had snuck in and avoided the host. Or so they thought, as across the room Michael Goal looked up from Julie feeding him cupcakes iced with pumpkins. 'Hey guys, come join us.' He called with a grin.

'This can't be good. David!' Art hissed but David was already sitting at Julie's feet with others who were still sober enough. Art sighed and wandered over, making sure people didn't step on his cape.

'We're gonna play some party games, wanna join?' Julie asked and David nodded eagerly. His face pretty much lit up when she ran her fingers through his frizzy dark brown hair. Michael huffed out his chest.

'What, pass the parcel?' Art muttered under his breath, gaining some scathing looks. Instead he took another swig from the bottle, the alcohol burning slightly.

'No, truth or dare, come on it'll be fun.' With a heavy sigh, he sat next to David, who probably didn't realise he was there. As the bottle spun between players, he just watched the window; passing car headlights warping shapes, the sky inky with little stars.

'Julie! Okay, truth or dare.' David said eagerly. It wasn't his turn to ask, and the girl whose turn it was looking annoyed.

'Truth.' She said with a giggle. David giggled too, almost in a higher pitch. His face went red as Art nudged him.

'Umm...what was your best Halloween memory?' He asked, starry eyes making up for the empty sky. Art hid his face in his hands. He should have stayed in the school, spending the night in his dorm with David here drooling over Julie.

'My Mum taking me trick or treating the year before she died.' There was a chorus of 'awws' and David looked as if he had witnessed a puppy being trampled, tears welling. Art just stared at the group as everyone shared their best Halloween moments, from trick or treating, to stealing sweets from porches. He shifted from his space on the carpet as Julie spoke of how much she missed her mother taking her out every Halloween when she was little.

 _'Is he here yet, is he here yet?' A small boy called, his vampire cape much too big and the source of many trip-up's since he put it on._

 _'He'll be on his way by now, kiddo.' His granddad said with a smile as he ran round the kitchen. His Nana had painted his face chalk white with fake blood dripping from his fangs. Or where they should be. They stayed in his pocket whilst he secretly ate the sweets put one side for the trick or treat-ers. Art sat on the kitchen floor and stared up at the clock on the kitchen wall as it ticked. He would be here soon. He had promised, or rather his Nana had threatened his father to promise. But he didn't know that._

 _'Do you think he'll like my costume?' Art asked nervously, flattening the white shirt underneath._

 _'It's lovely, Arty. Your father will love it too.' His Nana smiled as she placed plates back in the cupboard. She shooed him into the sitting room, where he sat on the sofa and devoured an apple as he waited, claiming it as his first 'victim' of the night. He'd spent the half-term here, nervous and excited as Mycroft had promised to take him trick or treating around the village where his grandparents lived. Their new cottage sat up a country lane, much quieter than the town house where they used to live. He had been little when they moved, but Mycroft and his Uncle Sherlock had been raised there. They said they wanted more space now that they were older. But made sure one bedroom was always just for him._

 _Art loved coming to his grandparents in the summer. He spent all his holidays here, and they enjoyed spoiling him whenever he did come. This was his home. He rarely went back to London to Mycroft's home as he worked all hours very nearly. If the weakness of sleep permitted, he'd work non-stop. His official residence was with Mycroft in London, but it was his grandparents who picked him up every holiday._

 _But tonight, his father was coming. The promise of trick or treating had consumed his every moment today. Putting his cape on for breakfast. From the hall there was a buzz. Art jumped to his feet, thinking the doorbell was ringing. The buzzing continued and he wretched the door open. No one stood on the threshold. But the buzzing continued. His Nana moved past, with a pat on his head, as she picked up the telephone._

 _'Mike! Where are you; someone here is very excited.' She said with a smile as she looked down at her frantic grandson. 'What do you mean? But you promised him! Oh, Mycroft! That's the third time! No! You can tell him yourself. Arty!' She called and Art scrambled into the living room where both his grandparents watched with baited breath as he picked up the phone, twirling the chord between his fingers._

 _'Dad! Are you on your way! Guess what! I'm a vampire this year. Nana painted my-' The little boy's face fell as the voice at the end of the line plainly put he wasn't coming. His grandparents watched with fallen faces as he pleaded down the phone._

 _'But-please!' The following answer wasn't what he wanted. He let go of the phone and ran up the stairs. His Nana went for the phone and began demanding answers as his granddad followed him upstairs. The man knocked lightly at the bedroom door decorated with stickers._

 _'Arty? Can I come in, son?' There was no response. He undid the latch and pushed the door open. The lamp was the only light source, and as a result he nearly missed the little lump lying under the bed against the wall. He smiled lightly and closed the door behind him. The cape was strewed up in the corner, fangs on the floor. The paint washed away with tears._

 _'Hey,' He said as he sat upon the bed above. 'You're upset, Art. But I guess your father couldn't get out of work.' Below them, the vague shouts of his wife echoed. He grimaced, not wanting to be Mycroft right now._

 _'He never comes!' A little voice squeaked from beneath._

 _'I know, kiddo. But your dad works hard. It's a very important job he does. He wishes he could see you more.'_

 _Art stuck his head out fro underneath the bed. 'No he doesn't. If he wanted to, he'd quit. Like Nana did with the numbers and maths stuff. But he doesn't, he only cares about his job! I see Uncle Sherlock more than I see him!' It was true – Sherlock was in University, yet saw more of his nephew, putting up with imaginary friends and play fights, much to his displeasure. But he still played with him more than Mycroft did._

 _The old man opened his arm and Art crawled up on the bed and let his granddad hug him. 'Now,' the man said. 'I think if your Nan fixes up that face,' he said as he bobbed his grandson's nose, 'then we can still go out and get so many sweets we're both sick!' Art's face split into a grin._

 _'You're not allowed sweets!' He said with a laugh, running to reattach his cape. 'Nana said!'_

 _'But it's Halloween! I must be allowed some this time of year!' He said with a laugh and chased the small vampire out of the room. Once the phone call ended, his Nana fixed her face into a smile and fixed up the fake blood, before up to three hours of knocking on doors and scaring people in the small village. By nine o'clock he was passed out on the sofa at home, a plastic pumpkin of sweets spilled over the carpet. His granddad was also asleep, in his armchair by the fire, several chocolate wrappers skewed around. Art didn't open his eyes all night afterwards, even when Mycroft did arrive, scathing looks from his mother as he watched the small vampire he had let down again._

'Anyone for shots!' Someone snapped Art out of his daydream as a tall boy pushed in with a tray of tiny glasses, swimming with liquid. Before anyone could say anything, Art mumbled a small 'give me' before taking five in a row, his face screwed up in disgust as his throat burned. There was a burst of applause as people told him to finish the whole tray. David was clapping his back as he finished the last shot of burning liquor that scathed his throat painfully.

'That was so cool!' Someone yelled, applauding Art again.

'You were right, David,' he said, 'this party was a good idea!' Soon the clapping died and the game continued. After another set of drinks, the bottle stopped spinning, landing on Art for the final round.

'Truth or dare, Holmes?' David said. Feeling as if he couldn't stand up, he chose truth. By this time, the players had disbanded and only four stayed – David, Julie, a girl called Karen, and Art himself.

'Give me truth?' He hiccupped. David didn't know what to ask so Julie turned and asked.

'What's your all time favourite memory?' She asked.

'My favourite memory? He asked, unable to focus his eyes. David was close to wetting himself with laughter. 'It hasn't happened yet,' Julie and Karen both looked confused. 'It'll be the day I tell my dad the truth. That I won't be what he wants me to be anymore, I'm no way studying politics at uni like he wants me to. It'll be the day when I'm free and I do what the hell I want to do!' David started clapping loudly whilst Julie and Karen glanced at one another.

'So what are you going to do at University then?' Karen asked. 'Like, something smart? Isn't your uncle that detective in London?' Julie's head snapped around. 'Really?' She asked.

'Yeah, I've met him!' David said and both girls looked impressed.

'Nah, I'm not smart like my uncle. I'm gonna...I'm gonna do photography! That's the one! I love that stuff, and it's what I'm going to do!'

'That is cool,' said Julie. 'Like do your own thing. I want to go work as a vet but my dad hates it, says I should do something more practical! Hell no. You go Art.' Both looked really impressed, and Julie even kissed Art on the cheek until he tumbled to the ground in a heap. Soon the two girls mingled back into the party and David crawled over to where Art was trying to get up.

'Dude! Julie Anderson just- I don't even-Art!' David clapped his shoulder. 'You just got hit on by Michael Goal's girlfriend.'

'There's just that minor problem, Davy.' Art said once he'd given up and taken permanent residence on the carpet staring at the ceiling. 'One, it's Michael's girlfriend. Two, I don't like girls, remember? Wait, that should have been number one, right?' David just rolled his eyes before getting his friend back to his feet.

The rest of the night was hazy. From what little he would later remember, some people had dragged them away from the party and further into town. The drinks kept coming and things went fine until a fight broke out in the street outside a take-away. Art couldn't remember if he had been in the original fight, or just caught in-between. The only thing that came out of it was a black eye and sore ribs, sitting in a hospital waiting room with David who'd ended up with a broken arm somehow, at two in the morning.

'Just through there, sir.' A nurse said and the waiting room doors opened.

'You know, I'm gonna go get a cup of tea. See you in a bit, Art.' David said and disappeared in a blink. Art wished the icepack he was holding his face was bigger to hide behind, to avoid the scathing gaze Mycroft was submitting. The man said nothing, but pulled David's seat up and sat in front of him, snapping off his gloves.

'Let me see.' He said and Art reluctantly pulled away the icepack to show him the swollen eye. 'Not too bad. You could have been blinded, though! What were you thinking!'

'Don't blame me! I can't even remember it.' He said, feeling like a sulky child and rather pathetic as he sat back in the chair.

'Well, thankfully, a policeman managed to find out. You'd tried to stop a fight between boys from your school. Your way was to hug one of them so they wouldn't fight. Instead they decided to start on you and your friend before beating each other to a pulp.'

'Huh. Well I suppose that's something I'd do.' Art mused.

'No, it isn't. You had an unnatural amount of alcohol in your system. Do you enjoy getting yourself into trouble, Marlow?' Mycroft sat back in his own seat, eyes stony.

'Well it got you here didn't it?' He slurred, his head swimming under the bright artificial lights.

'You're a mess. Come on,' Mycroft said and tried to pull the boy to his feet.

'You made me like this, you know.' Art slurred, half unaware of his words as Mycroft lead him out of the waiting room. He sighed through his nose as he sat his son down in the back of the waiting car, before climbing in round the other side.

'Did you hear me? You made me into this.' Art slurred again, eyes blinking heavily as he began to fall asleep. His head rested against Mycroft's shoulder uncomfortably, and the man watched the boy, who was no longer a little vampire.

'I know I did. And I'm sorry.' But Art was too deeply asleep to hear him say it.

 **Thanks for reading guys. Hopefully I'll have some more ideas under my hat soon and I'll post when I can! Thanks for reading! See you all sooner than this time I hope**


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